Children of the Storm Read Free Page B

the voice of someone they talk to every day and have known for years.”
        “I suppose,” Sonya said, reluctantly.
        For the first time, Peterson seemed to realize what the story had done to her composure, and he forced a smile for her, an imitation of his genuine grin. “Hey, don't let it upset you like that! No one got hurt. And, obviously, the kids are safe down here on Distingue. They've been here since the middle of June, going on three months, with no more incidents.”
        “Still,” Sonya said hollowly, “the man who made the threats is on the loose.”
        “Oh, brother,” Peterson said, slapping his forehead, “I must have come on like a real doomsayer first class! I really didn't mean to worry you, Sonya. I was just surprised that Joe hadn't explained the situation to you. Look, he and Mrs. Dougherty are sure the crisis is passed. They're so sure that they want to take a few weeks off for a trip to California. Once you're settled in, they'll pack and be off. Now, would they leave their kids if they thought there was still the slightest breath of danger?”
        “No,” she said, “I guess they wouldn't.” However, all of this sudden attempt to reassure her had actually done very little to erase the image of a deranged and murderous child molester which he had first painted for her.
        To distract her, he grinned even more broadly, and a bit more genuinely, and waved his arm dramatically ahead of them. “What do you think of our island, our lovely Distingue ? Isn't she about the most marvelous piece of real estate you've ever seen?”
        Sonya looked up, surprised to see the island looming before them through the curve of the sun-tinted, plexiglass windscreen, like the opening scene in some motion picture, too beautiful for anything but fantasy. She had not noticed it growing on the horizon, but that might have been because, except for the central spine of low hills, the island was nearly as flat as the sea which lapped at all sides of it. A thick stand of lacy palm trees backed the startlingly white beaches and shaded, on the nearest of the hills, a mammoth house that must surely contain two dozen rooms or even more. It was of white board, with balconies and porches, several gables and many clean, square windows that reflected the golden-red brilliance of the sun and gave the place a look of warmth and welcome.
        If she had not just heard the story which Bill Peterson had told her on the way over from Pointe-a-Pitre, she would have thought that the Dougherty house was absolutely charming, a beautiful mass of angles, lines and shapes, the product of a good architect and of expert craftsmen spurred to do their best by a customer who could afford any expense whatsoever, any luxury that struck his fancy. Now, however, with the real-life nightmare hovering always in the back of her mind, like a dark bird of prey, the house seemed curiously menacing, swathed in purple shadows, full of darkened niches, harsh, sharp, a mysterious monolith against the sweet Caribbean horizon, almost a sentient creature lying in wait on the brow of that tropic hill. She began to wonder, more seriously than before, if her old college roommate had been right about the dangers in coming to this place…
        “You'll like it,” Peterson said.
        She said nothing.
        “This is God's country, in the true sense,” Peterson said, still anxious to repair her mood, which he felt responsible for damaging. “Nothing bad can happen here.”
        She wished she could be sure of that.

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    TWO
        
        Henry Dalton, the house butler, came down to the small boat dock to meet them, pushing an aluminum luggage cart over the uneven boards of the little pier. He was sixty-five, but looked ten years older, a slight man with snow white hair, a grizzled face, hard black eyes that looked far too young for the bushy white eyebrows that arched above them like senior citizen caterpillers. Though